Dinner Party of the Dead

Smoke in their eyes
A silver glint in the wine
She’s serving scallops, salad, and strychnine
Bittersweet platter of petite deceits

The dinner party’s dead

“What’s your poison?” Said Death’s-head
Atramentous wings shed a decaying scent
The Reaper fed


We gaze beyond the universe’s precipice
and the Terror plucks out our eyes
to utter its name invites a feast of tongues
the Word corrupted, it sleeps no longer
Sol rages, the Herald cries—ruin
we came from stars; now we return
nourishment for the Sun Eater’s